Kryptonite
by Stratagem
Summary: Alec learns that being in Manticore for twenty-odd years and suddenly leaving doesn't mean it doesn't still have a hold on you...


Disclaimer: I don't own Dark Angel, I don't own Jondy and Alec, and it's sad, but I think I'll survive.

Kryptonite

_If I go crazy then will you still  
Call me Superman  
If I'm alive and well, will you be  
There holding my hand  
I'll keep you by my side with  
My superhuman might  
Kryptonite_

_-"Kryptonite" _by Three Doors Down

_Nine hundred…Nine hundred and one…Nine hundred and two…_

He pushed against the wooden floorboards, his palms damp against the old varnish. His arms shook as lactic acid built up in his muscles faster than his body could break it down. It hurt, a lot, but he knew better than to stop now.

_Nine hundred thirteen… Nine hundred fourteen…Nine hundred fifteen…Nine hundred sixteen…_

He couldn't stop, he had to keep going, just keep going. He had to do push-ups until his arms couldn't hold him anymore, until his back couldn't stay that rigid platform, until he started burning up the muscles in his legs instead of the fat. He had to be disciplined, had to work harder. That was what he had to do, and after he did that, he needed to do pull-ups. He'd have to find a bar for that. Maybe the doorframe. Or the fire escape. The fire escape would be better, he could hang over the edge, make it harder, he'd be stronger.

_Nine hundred twenty nine… Nine hundred thirty…Nine hundred thirty one…Nine hundred thirty two…Nine hundred thirty three…_

It was his duty to do better. Just surviving wasn't his best. He was a soldier, elite, X5, in charge, in command, all the time, any time, whenever they needed him, beat the clock, do it better, had to do better.

_Nine hundred fifty four… Nine hundred fifty five…Nine hundred fifty six…Nine hundred fifty seven …_

He couldn't fail. Failure wasn't acceptable. Soldiers who failed died. He'd seen failures. They always died. Manticore killed them, they were useless, or they died on missions, still useless. Except for parts. Parts were useful. If he was a failure, he'd be useless, he'd be dead, he'd be parts. He had to survive. Mission Objective. Can't fail. So he wasn't going to.

_Nine hundred seventy one… Nine hundred seventy two…_

He needed to keep in shape, he needed to do P.T. because he hadn't done it since Manticore and the have-to, the must-do-for-duty need had been pressing on his head, building pressure, shit, it hurt to ignore it, so he had to do it. Give in and get the pressure off. He had gotten up from bed and run around the sector, twice, before coming back here and doing push-ups in the living room. Had to make it right, needed to do P.T., get back in optimum shape, had to. His duty. Discipline himself.

_Nine hundred ninety four… Nine hundred ninety five…Nine hundred ninety six…Nine hundred ninety seven…_

Sweat slipped down his face and pooled in the dip beneath his nose and the corners of his mouth before trailing down his jawline to drip off his chin. Why was he doing this. He shoved against the floor, keeping rhythm with his heart, keeping the pace up. It didn't make sense, this hurt, but he had to do it because it was his duty. He had to be disciplined, and it was his honor to discipline himself, wasn't it, no, no, hello, is this me? This was punishment, he didn't choose it, but he couldn't stop, please, he was tired, so tired.

_Thousand. Thousand One. Thousand Two. Thousand Three. Four. Five. Six. Seven._

Her bare feet on the floor. The bedroom door creaked open, dry hinges whining protest. Hair slipping back over her shoulders, golden, waved and heavy, like honey. The whisper of cloth against skin couldn't compete with his grunting, expelling breaths before hastily sucking them in, chest straining, lungs seeking oxygen. The scent of female body washed in lavender soap and fresh from a clean-sheet bed where she rested instead of slept caught his nose, and his arms trembled again. The floorboards cracked in protest as she walked toward him with cat steps. She stopped in front of him, her feet in his view. There were fine, delicate golden hairs on the knuckles of her toes.

"Alec?"

_Thousand Twenty Two. Thousand TwentyThree. TwentyFour. Five._

Jondy. No time to answer her. He needed to do at least 974-3-2 more push-ups if he was going to be anywhere near satisfied with himself. His fingers slid two centimeters across the sweat-slick floor. Help me. Keep going, keep moving, don't stop, I want to stop. Jondy?

"Hey, no, Alec," Jondy's voice said from above him, insistent. Frightened. Over the pounding in his ears, he heard her move, her body bending as she knelt down beside him, knees pressing cloth pressing floor. Her hands touched him, cold and dry against hot and wet. Both trembling. She shook him gently. "Stop it, please…you can't do this to yourself."

He pressed down, sending his rigid torso up again, then down, then up, then down, then up, down, up, down, updownupdownup.

_Thousand. Sixty Five. Six. Seven. Eight Nine Seventy One._

"Alec," Jondy said, louder now, close to his ear, "Alec, stop it." Her fingers dug into his shoulders, ragged unpolished fingernails grazing his skin. "Stop it, come on, snap out of it! Alec!"

She kept talking, begging. He kept training.

_Nine. Thousand Ninety. One. Two Three Four FIVE SIX_

"Alec, can you hear me? Talk to me! Quit! You're making yourself sick!"

_SEVEN-EIGHT-NINE_

Jondy shoved him. She pressed both hands against his shoulder and side and shoved, toppling him over just as he was pushing off the floor for the 1075th time. Who did she think she was, this dirty 09er, breaking his rhythm just as it got going, stopping his training like that? As he fell, he grabbed her wrists and pulled her with him, catching her off guard so she gasped. He rolled over on top of her, his knees on either side of her, his weight pinning her to the ground, her wrists slammed to the floor over her head as he bent in close, his face inches from hers.

Who did she think she was. She could bleed, he'd hurt her for stopping him, he needed to train, be better, she didn't understand.

He'd make her understand.

But…she was crying. She wasn't even struggling. Pathetic. Wait, why? His arms shook, his legs ached, and she cried. He let go of one of her wrists. His fingers hovered over her face, almost touching the hot cheeks, the tears.

Jondy…

Startled, Alec pulled away, flinging himself away from Jondy and against the base of the couch. What the hell was that? What had just happened? He blinked, looking into the darkness at Jondy. She was shaking, but whether that was from fear or crying, he didn't know. He had scared her, hurt her, but he didn't mean to. He would never hurt her like that. That hadn't been him. Why did he do that?

His fingertips scrabbled across the floor as he tried to find something to hold onto for the moment. Eventually he settled for pressing the heels of his hands against his eyes. Sweat grew cold then dried on his skin.

His body shuddered from the miles it had run in the October chill without a shirt, from the strain of 1,100 odd push-ups without any stretching. What had made him do that? He remembered the need. It was like he couldn't say no anymore, like he had been denying a part of him that was essential to survival, and he couldn't hold out any longer.

Duty. Discipline. Strength. Hard Work.

They were Manticore ideals. The training that he had endured year after year, that he thought he had overcome multiple times, was truly part of him, just like breathing or eating. Manticore had made him believe that he needed to exercise to live; it was part of their indoctrination to make sure the transgenics stayed physically fit at all times, even if they weren't at Manticore. Alec had thought he was above the mind games, that none of it could stick to him.

Idiot.

A fleece blanket fell across his shoulders.

"I did it, too."

He lowered his hands from his face and glanced at Jondy. She folded herself onto the couch above him, looking at the coffee table, carpet, and footstool that he had shoved out of the way in his blind need to do 2,000 push-ups in the middle of her apartment.

"When I got out of Manticore, I didn't stop P.T. for three years," she said, "I did things like I did back at Manticore. It's not something you can just drop. Manticore…" She sighed and rested her head against the couch cushions, honey-hair spreading across the faded cloth. "It's, I don't know, a lifestyle. You don't wake up one morning and decide not to do things their way anymore." She looked down at him. Calm, sad, defiant blue eyes. "They make sure that you don't forget who you belong to."

He leaned back against the couch and blinked away the weak tears he refused to let fall. He took in a long breath then let it out quickly. "It sucks."

Jondy stretched out on the couch, stomach down. She nuzzled him, bumping her head against the crook of his neck like his unit mates used to do when they were kids and contact was acceptable. Hesitating for a moment, he rested his head against hers, settling when she didn't move. Her breath was warm against his cold skin.

"Yeah. It does."


End file.
